Glance
by ninemuses
Summary: Alex is used to men looking at her but not like this.


**Author's notes:** From a prompt I received from Tera (aka my regular beta for non-vignette works) on Tumblr: "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."

* * *

It takes days, weeks even, before Alex notices. Maybe it's because she's used to having eyes on her. Taking in her body. The curve of her hips. The swell of her breasts. Taking in all the skin she exposes.

The bait. The goods. The promise of a fun time.

Attracting attention was part and parcel of her former trade. You fail to get a man's attention? You fail to get money. No money means no food and in her specific case, a rainfall of Barry's fists on her face and body.

Alex learned early on after coming to the city that it was in her best interest to avoid the latter.

Not that it mattered in the end. Barry's grasp reached too far and nothing satisfied him. She could turn tricks for countless men in one day and return to him aching and barely able to walk and it still wouldn't be enough.

But maybe that's why she doesn't notice immediately. The looks she's received before, they feel different from this one now. Those eyes from before looked at her like an object. A _thing_.

These eyes look at her like...a person.

Part of Alex is bewildered by the idea. She's so used to men wanting something from her. _Always_ wanting and demanding something from her. Little pieces and bites that eat away at her being, consuming her, making her forget who she is, who she was. It's such a change to encounter something different.

Another part of Alex is...not disquieted. No, not that. In another life, she would say _intrigued_. In this one, she thinks she's mildly curious. Yes, safer to think of that way. Much safer.

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by the watching. Nicolas is the one who gave her the handkerchief, after all. Worick, despite his easy smiles and overly familiar hands, didn't even do that.

What confuses her is _why_. Despite the handkerchief, she's not even sure Nicolas _likes_ her. Tolerates her presence, yes. Likes her? She's not so sure.

At first it seems like he's doing it keep his distance. To make sure he's not around when she is. Avoidance. Why shouldn't she assume he doesn't like her?

But it soon becomes apparent that's not what's going on at all.

Sometimes she wakes up on the couch, a light sheet tucked carefully around her in a way that doesn't make sense, doesn't seem _natural_. Not when she's prone to kicking and turning, tangling the sheet around her, sometimes tossing it to the floor. It's too neat. Too meticulous.

Other times she'll lift her head to catch a glimpse of his face turning away before he disappears down the stairs. It could be that he's just passing by, but she _always_ catches that glimpse of his face turning away. Always. What are the odds of that?

Her suspicions sharpen into absolute certainty one day when she looks up at her reflection and catches Nicolas's eyes in the mirror. Those dark eyes narrow slightly for one brief, fleeting, eternal moment. Then he turns away, as he always does, without a word, without a sign, and keeps walking past.

Alex moves before she knows what she's doing. Before she can think better of her actions.

She reaches out and grasps the sleeve of his dress shirt, pinching the fabric between her finger and thumb. Not grabbing—oh no—she won't do that. Just holding on lightly. Barely.

Nicolas stops even though he could break free easily.

"What—?" she begins. Stops. "Why—?" No, that's not right either. Finally, "I won't make trouble. I promise. I just need—" Time. "I won't overstay my welcome." Alex knows what happens when a man gets tired of a woman. These Handymen seem different, they _do_ , but the doubts—they linger. Some things you can't shake free.

Some things stay with you forever.

With each one of her clumsy explanations, Nicolas's expression grows less and less impressed. He rubs the back of his neck and steps away, his arm pulling free of her fingers. "Are you finished?" he asks, his jagged voice still a shock against her ears. "Worick wants to talk to you about something."

"Oh," she says, his words stopping the jumbled flow of words falling from her mouth. "Okay."

It's for the best. It is. It's not like she even knows what she was trying to say.

Not really.

* * *

Later, after her conversation with Worick, Alex escapes the office. She does it sometimes, when the walls close in and stifle her.

She retreats to her stairwell, that little nook tucked into the alley across from the Handymen's building.

And there, she pauses. Stares at the small, unopened bottle of Perrier waiting for her on the bottom step. The one she normally sits on.

Alex whirls. As she does, she thinks she catches a silhouette moving away from the window, ducking just out of her sight.

Well.

Alex picks up the bottle of water and sits on the step. She leans her cheek against the wall, closing her eyes. Fine. She won't ask. She won't question it.

The bottle opens with ease, a simple twist. The water tastes cools and refreshing on her tongue. When did Nicolas put this here? It had to have come out of the refrigerator not too long ago.

Alex sighs. Yes. She'll accept it.

For now.


End file.
